Cor Gratia
by silvergryphon06
Summary: The path of redemption is never smooth, and ever winding. For the MacManus brothers, it's a grace they didn't believe they deserved. For the girl they left behind, it's the one thing she was never able to grant them. In the sensuous, timeless heat of New Orleans, they'll all have to come to terms with the past, and hopefully discover the peace that has always seemed to elude them.
1. Prologue

_**A/N: **_**This has been rolling around in my head for a while, and I'd really like to give it a go. I love **_**Boondock Saints, **_**have for years, and with my recent Norman Reedus kick, this kind of flowed out the past week. No worries, if you're a regular reader of my other projects, I fully intend to continue with them as well. This will hopefully be updated on at least a bi-weekly basis, if not more frequently. I'm in the clutches of a serious Reedus obsession right now, so it's highly likely that I'll be cranking this out at top speed for a while.**

**I also wanted to note that, not being the biggest fan of the second film, I'll mostly just be borrowing a couple key recognizable elements from it, but otherwise will be ignoring it. This story will be set just before what would have been the start of that film. **

**Feedback would be greatly appreciated! :)**

**Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing. I swear.**

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

**Boston March 17, 1997**

"Fuck me if I haven't been lookin' forward t'this all week." Murphy rubbed his hands together briskly, grinning at his twin standing beside him.

"You and the rest of fuckin' Boston," Connor muttered, tossing up the collar of his worn Navy peacoat before stuffing his hands deep into the pockets.

Steam rolled up in massive wafts from the vents beneath the sidewalk, warm puffs of air that most passersby were grateful for. What meager heat that had lingered before sunset had long since passed, and there was a distinct chill in the air, the last remnants of winter.

Murphy snatched up two packs of cigarettes from the stand they'd stopped at, paying for them and tossing an arm around his brother's hunched shoulders, ignoring the throngs of people on either side of them.

"Where's your Irish spirit, brother? It's St. Paddy's and the whole fuckin' world is in love with us today. Free beer and a pretty girl for each knee!"

Connor snorted, his lips twitching as he dipped his head a bit in a nod.

"Aye." His bright blue eyes slid away from Murphy's, across the street to the slanting apartment building they called home. "Ya think she'll be alright up there by herself? I know she brought a bit of readin', but still-"

Murphy cuffed him on the back of the head, his grin widening.

"Quit yer frettin', woman. The girl promised us she'd be fine, and she's always been as fuckin' good as her word. Now if it were Roc up there…" He trailed off, wriggling his eyebrows and Connor smirked.

"Fair enough." He shrugged his shoulders carelessly, his head tilting as his gaze fell on a petite, long-haired brunette across the street . "Just don' like leavin' her all by her lonesome for us t'get shit-faced, s'all."

He could tell without looking that Murphy had spotted the same girl, his index finger rubbing across his lips as his eyes traced up the curve of long bare legs appreciatively, even if it was more than a little foolish to be wearing that short a skirt in this weather. Her shoulders and upper back were bare in a dark colored halter top that set off the warm tone of her complexion. Bit on the skinny side for his taste, but still, he wasn't complaining, not with the way she was confidently strutting in strappy stilettos like she owned the block.

"Aye," his twin murmured quietly, watching her hips gently sway in that tiny black miniskirt. And he wasn't the only one. Every male in sight had zeroed in on the sweet little thing. "Didn't quite sit right with me, either, but she insisted we have a bit a fun, like we'd planned."

Murphy's smile was wolfish, and Connor almost unconsciously mirrored it, his lips curving of their own volition as they strode up the sidewalk. With a small pang of disappointment, he saw that the girl across from them had met up with a bloke near the corner. His eyebrow shot upwards at how he was openly leering as she stopped to speak with him and nervously licking his lips. Matter of fact, now that they were abreast of them, he could finally see her face. Her features were fine, delicate looking, with cheeks still gently rounded from youth, and a small perky nose. Her lips were pouty and full, the kind that made a man do very foolish things for a kiss, and glossed a candy red. White, even little teeth nibbled on the bottom one as her hands demurely folded behind her back. Didn't suppose he could blame the poor fucker she was talking to for looking like he'd struck the jackpot. With smoky, bedroom eyes of green like that, he-

Wait a bloody fucking minute.

Instinctively, Connor reached out and grabbed his brother's coat sleeve, his heart actually stopping in his chest.

"I know them eyes," he said hoarsely, any potentially lusty thoughts he'd had quenched like he'd jumped into the Charles.

He glanced at Murphy, who looked equally thunderstruck, his jaw slack as recognition flitted across his face.

"What the _fuck_ is she doing dressed like tha'? She's barely seventeen for Christ's sake!" the darker twin breathed out.

"What the fuck is she doing with _tha' _little prick _when_ she's dressed like tha'?" Connor snarled, jerking Murphy after him as they quickly crossed the street, heedless of the furious honking around them.

Neither of the two young people noticed the approaching Irishmen. The boy was absorbed with the way she was flirtatiously curling her finger around one ink-spun ringlet, her head tilted as she smiled sweetly at him. She was a dynamite mixture of innocent suggestiveness, a naughty fantasy come to life and he'd be damned if he didn't bring her home with him!

At least, that's what he'd been thinking right up until two tall, darkly clothed shadows appeared on either side of her with murder blazing in their identical blue eyes.

The girl's brows furrowed as the nice guy she'd been talking to broke off mid-sentence, bolting in the opposite direction. Frowning, she started to take a step after him, but a pair of hands coming down on her shoulders made her freeze. Her eyes widened in panic and she spun around, her heart in her throat. Shit, this had been a bad idea. Now she was going to get hauled off into some dirty back alley and Roc'd never know what happened to her.

When she saw who it was behind her, she almost wished that scenario had been the case. Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach.

Fuck.

She started to say something, but Murphy held up a finger, his jaw clenched tight. "Don't. Don't you say a fuckin' word, Mariana."

Her mouth snapped shut with a click as he reached down and roughly grabbed her elbow. Connor had shed his peacoat and without a word wrapped it around her shoulders before grabbing her other arm. Unceremoniously, she was then hauled back the way she had come, her cheeks burning with humiliation that quickly turned to rage as she struggled to keep up in her precarious high heels.

How dare they drag her down the block like two overbearing ogres! She hadn't done anything wrong! OK, so maybe she'd skirted around the truth a little, got them to leave the apartment so she could go out, but she'd never said that she _wasn't _going to go out, or that she planned to stay in the whole time. She'd promised to read her book, and she had. Granted, it was only for as long as it took them to leave the apartment. Then she'd tossed off the overcoat she'd kept cinched around her tiny waist, feigning a chill, and dashed to the sink to apply her smuggled makeup. Mama wouldn't miss a couple pieces here and there. She had so much she already used, a tube of lipstick, a compact, and a few other odds and ends weren't a big deal. Not that she'd have noticed even if Mariana had plucked them up right in front of her. She couldn't tear her eyes away from her 'stories' long enough, at least when she was actually home. Usually, it was just Mariana and the house plant. Truth be told, she prefered it that way. Her mother had a tendency to treat her as though she were still a small child.

But in a little over ten minutes, after experimenting with darkening her eyes and brightening her lips, she'd felt like a real woman. Someone that maybe, for once, Connor and Murphy might look at as more than a kid. Her cheeks heated further remembering how proud she'd been of herself. All she'd wanted to do was...well, she wasn't all that sure anymore. Hadn't been entirely sure when she'd been planning it either. But she was just so sick of them, and Roc, acting like she was a child that needed tending to, looking after. She'd thought...she'd thought that maybe if she could just get somebody, anybody to look at her the way Murphy and Connor looked at those gorgeous girls that sat in their laps at McGinty's, then maybe there was a chance they'd see her like that.

Fucking stupid.

"For fuck's sake," she grumbled under her breath, which earned her a quick pop on her bottom, making her jump with a squeak. Her head snapped up to see Connor glaring down at her.

"Mind yer mouth, girl."

She scowled.

Great...still a kid. Can't even swear.

Seething, the teen barely noticed when Connor threw open the side door to their building. Her skirt was riding dangerously high on her hips from how fast they'd pulled her along, but she didn't dare try to tug her arms out of their grasp long enough to smooth it back down. The hem of Connor's coat reached her knees, so maybe that would keep the world from seeing the black lace panties she'd stolen from the top drawer of Mama's dresser. Her cheeks flushing an even darker shade of red from embarrassment, the indignatious fury draining from her body, and she prayed hard that they wouldn't notice.

But of course they did. They never missed anything.

Wordlessly, they let go of her, Connor's hand shifting to her lower back to guide her into the lift as Murphy shrugged out of his peacoat. Neither of them looked at her as he handed it to her, both of them stepping in front of her to keep her hidden from view. Hot tears pricked her eyes as she tied the sleeves of Murphy's coat around her small waist with shaking hands. Then she did the same with her arms, hugging her middle as she bit her bottom lip hard. She wouldn't cry. Dammit, she wouldn't!

Trying to keep her sniffle as quiet as possible, she let out a tight breath through her mouth, her eyes fixed firmly on the floor of the lift. When it jerked to a stop, she lost her balance, letting out another high-pitched squeak as she started to stumble forward. Twin hands immediately shot out and caught her, one pair at her waist while the other wrapped around her arms. They let her go again as soon as she found her feet, and then she was being herded between them as Connor unlocked the door to their apartment. Murphy ushered her in from behind, pointing at the couch.

"Sit," he told her, his voice gruff, and she obeyed, plopping down on the worn cushions, although she managed to muster up a defiant glare as she did. It probably would have been more convincing if her mascara hadn't already started to run.

She watched them both dig a fresh pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of their jean pockets, and instantly the smell of smoke was thickening the air. Mariana felt some of the tension leaving her body at the scent. She breathed it in, a little comforted by it familiar sting in her nose. They might be pissed as all hell, but if they were smoking, then it couldn't be all bad. It was when they didn't light up that she really needed to worry.

With her knees deeply tucked under his coat, Murphy crouched in front of her and pulled up her right leg, nimbly unstrapping the ridiculous shoe from her foot.

The silence was getting to be too much for her, and without thinking about it, she blurted, "Aren't you going to ask me why?"

Murphy's hand stilled for a brief second, his smoke dangling from his lips and his warm hand wrapped around her slender ankle. He exchanged a glance with Connor that made her scowl. She knew they were having a conversation without her, _about _her, and frankly it was worse than if they were actually talking.

Finally, Connor looked over at her, cradling his cigarette between two fingers as he exhaled a stream of smoke.

"No." He let the pause stretch for a long moment, then asked, "First time ya've pulled this shit?"

The quiet way he spoke, disappointment and something else that she couldn't define lacing his voice, broke her resolve. She hung her head, her fingers starting to twist around themselves as she fidgeted on the sofa.

"Yes..."

Roughly, she swiped a hand across her eyes, watching Murphy toss the pilfered heel over his shoulder carelessly before lifting up her other leg.

"What we don' un'erstan' is why the fuck ya felt the need t'lie t'us about it. Fuck all, _Stoirín_, yer fuckin' smarter than this!" Murphy growled. Despite the harsh way he spoke to her, his fingers were gentle where they held her foot in place.

But hearing the pet name in the midst of his cursing made her wince, and Murphy almost felt bad for it. Almost. The girl had to get it through her head right fucking now that what she'd done was stupid and dangerous. If they hadn't spotted her when they did…

Jesus fucking Christ, he didn't even want to think about it.

As he finished taking off the other shoe, Connor grabbed a decently clean wash rag from where it hung haphazardly over the shower rod and slipped past his brother to dampen it beneath the icy spray that tended to blast from the kitchenette sink. Leaning back against the counter, he tossed it to the girl on their ratty sofa, two streams of smoke curling from his nostrils. She caught it with both hands, looking between it and him cautiously.

He nodded to her, pinching the butt of his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and lifting it back to his lips. "Wipe tha' shit off yer face, girl. Ya look like a fuckin' hooker."

Murphy had to grit his teeth and duck his head to keep from reacting to the clear hurt on her features at his brother's words. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Connor look away from her too as she rubbed the cloth over her lips, shifting uncomfortably. It was a lie. She didn't resemble a brasser in the slightest. But she'd absolutely looked too much like a grown woman. Men staring at her like one hadn't been entirely her fault. She might have been made up to draw attention, but she hadn't forced them to turn their heads.

And that right there was the fucking problem. Both of them were guilty as sin, because it was unlikely either of them were going to be able to get the image of her striding up that street out of their heads anytime soon.

Time to put her back in the safe 'kid' box before Rocco killed both of them.

Murphy focused on her ankle, noticing that she'd strapped the shoes on too tight, probably trying to just keep them on her feet. He brushed his thumb over the angry red line and felt his irritation spike. He glanced up to her face, bright blue eyes searching her green ones as she rubbed at each eyelid.

"Were ya tellin' the truth 'bout yer ma kickin' ya out tonight? Needin' a place t'crash?"

Quickly, Mariana nodded. "Yeah. She's got George over. Said I needed to clear out till day after tomorrow."

Murphy glanced at Connor, who was gripping the edge of the counter so tightly that his knuckles were white. Fucking bitch couldn't even give a damned thought to where her daughter was supposed to stay, could she? Or she assumed Roc would be home. Showed how fucking much she knew. But why the fuck should either of them be surprised? Woman couldn't even figure out who her youngest's da was, much less what fucking day it happened to be. Shouldn't expect much more when ya knew that.

Mariana's breathing started to hitch and her bottom lip trembled. Running a hand through his dark hair, Murphy let out a breath.

Christ, he couldn't take it when she did that.

"Aright, don' start with tha', now. No harm done," he soothed her, reaching up to tuck several unruly strands behind her ear, his fingers trailing down to her cheek. "We're not mad at ya, are we, Connor?"

Apparently Connor was just as susceptible, sucking in a breath when her large green eyes turned to him, shining with unshed tears. Angling his hand behind him, he opened the fridge and pulled out three bottles of beer. He closed it with his foot and pushed off from the counter, flicking his cigarette butt into the sink. The lighter-haired twin flopped down on the sofa, throwing one arm up to rest across the back of it. Mariana was over next to him in a flash, leaning her bony shoulder against his chest and taking one of the bottles with a shyly hesitant expression, the damp washcloth folded in her lap.

Girl had them wrapped around her finger, she did.

Fuck, she had everyone at McGinty's believing she was the sweetest child God had ever put on this earth. T'weren't that far from the truth. She was a good kid. Did good in school, kept out of trouble, for the most part. Had nearly gotten Rocco beaten to a pulp a couple of times for hustling pool. Neither he or Connor were about to tell him they were the ones that'd shown his baby sister how to play. It wouldn't matter to him that she'd gotten stubborn when they'd said no and approached a shark that liked to come in every couple of weeks.

Which reminded him.

Murphy straightened up long enough to take the other spare beer, then immediately sat down on the other side of the sofa.

"Yer brother know where yer at?" he asked her as he twisted off the top.

"I called him. I always tell Roc where I am," she answered in a small voice, suddenly very interested in picking at the damp label of her drink with her short, blunt fingernails. "Don't mean he pays attention."

The brothers exchanged another look over her head, then Connor shifted slightly, bumping his shoulder against her cheek so that she would look up at him.

"Tha' what this is about, now? Gettin' a bit of attention from ole Rocco?"

She glanced away from him, unable to keep meeting his eyes without her face flushing again.

No, that wasn't it. Well, not completely it. But she'd catch her own hair on fire before she'd tell them that.

God, she was pathetic. Acting like the stupid, moony teenager she was instead of the more mature responsible young adult she'd been pretending to be. Maybe acknowledging that made her more of the latter than she believed but she was skeptical. They were so much older than her, and so...just...more than anything she'd ever known or seen. With their rakish looks and warm, rough brogues, they could have their choice of women, and usually did. Could she be blamed that she'd fallen for the two of them, hard?

She almost blanched. Her brother would have a damned heart attack if he found out.

"No," she said finally, honestly, but she couldn't bring herself to look at either of them.

Neither of them moved, but she knew they were looking at one another again. They didn't push her for a straight answer, though and for that she was grateful. She thought she'd hit her humiliation limit for one night.

Shuddering at the taste, she took a long pull of her beer. Chuckling, Connor took it from her, ticking his chin towards the little bag she'd brought with her when she'd first shown up and had subsequently dropped near the door.

"Change outta tha' get-up and put on yer pajamas, _Stoirín_. Then ya can have the rest of it."

Mariana nodded and hopped up from the couch, picking her way over Murphy's outstretched legs, since the prick couldn't be bothered to tuck them in for her to pass. Scooping up the strap of her bag, she trotted over to the shower and swung the curtain closed. As soon as the fabric swished shut around her, the brothers let their heads fall back against the wall simultaneously.

"We'll die of heart attacks before thirty," Connor groused quietly, throwing his arm across his eyes.

"Aye. Girl's gonna be the fuckin' death of us," Murphy muttered.


	2. Chapter 1

_**A/N: **_**This has been rolling around in my head for a while, and I'd really like to give it a go. I love **_**Boondock Saints, **_**have for years, and with my recent Norman Reedus kick, this kind of flowed out the past week. No worries, if you're a regular reader of my other projects, I fully intend to continue with them as well. Feedback would be greatly appreciated! **

**Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing. I swear.**

* * *

><p><strong>Present Day<strong>

It'd been years since Boston had seen this damp a winter.

Snow mixed with freezing rain had slickened and iced every surface it touched. Crews worked around the clock to make sure there was enough salt on the sidewalks to keep people from breaking their legs just for stepping out the door, but casualties were inevitable.

Smecker just hoped he wasn't going to be one of them.

God knew the last place he needed to end up was in the hospital. Try explaining to your attending that you really should be treated in the morgue, since he was looking at a dead man walking.

Pressing his thin lips together tightly, he adjusted the heavy coat across his slender shoulders and carefully picked his way on the slippery gravel path from the sleek black sedan the Company had rented for him. It was late in the afternoon, the dark, churning clouds overhead hanging low and heavy with the threatening promise of another blizzard. Just what he needed, he thought, scowling, to be stranded at this ungodly hour of the morning, in the middle of a deserted cemetery.

Well, almost deserted.

The lights were on in the mausoleum, indicating that there was at least one other presence.

At least she hadn't been hard to track down. It would have been just fucking peachy if she'd bothered to let them know where she was going, but when he'd happened to see the date circled on her calendar, he knew where she'd gone. Smecker wiped the soles of his brand new Allen Edmonds on the surprisingly dry mat just outside the entryway and removed his hat, smoothing his hand over the thick, chestnut waves. Straightening his tie a bit, he strode inside, his footsteps ringing hollowly on the freezing marble.

He found her where he'd expected to. She was standing to the side of one long column of memorials, gloved fingertips stretched out to trace along the frame of one particular portrait while the other hand was safely tucked into her coat pocket. Long black ringlets hung loose around her shoulders, slinking down her back in untidy waves. The hems of her jeans were damp, the thick boots she wore clumped with mud and snow. She was about average height, he'd have guessed, and if he'd prefered women, he would have described her as blessed, with what could only be described as an hourglass figure.

He cleared his throat as he came up behind her, and she half-turned to regard him over her shoulder. Delicate features were set in a blank mask, but the one green iris he could see fixed on him suspiciously.

"Mr. Smecker," she greeted, giving him a slight nod.

He returned it, his lips curving in a small, polite smile. "Ms. Orsino. I thought I might find you here."

She turned her attention back to the marker, removing her hand to place it in the pocket of her coat, like the other.

"It's become something of a tradition to visit on his birthday."

He moved to stand beside her. "I'm sure your brother would appreciate that you take the time."

She snorted. "He'd have told me I was sweet to bring him flowers, but he wasn't a pussy, and to run and get him a beer. And he'd have been pissed that I picked his mugshot for the marker."

Her voice was deadpan, but Smecker could have sworn he saw her lips twitch.

"He might have also suggested that you let people know where you're going," he replied, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

She raised a brow at him, and this time he was certain as she let out a small laugh. "Christ, you didn't know Roc from Adam's housecat did you?"

He chuckled dryly. "No, uh, we never met, not formally, anyway. But from what I hear, he was a damn good man."

The slight smile that had started to curve her mouth faded then, the amused gleam in her eyes dying as if someone had flipped a switch. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, ducking her head further into her coat.

"He was no saint...but yeah, he tried."

The ex-agent didn't miss the dual implication of her words, but he didn't comment on it. Instead, he turned to face her fully, his brow furrowed.

"You don't have to do this. The evidence you can provide the Bureau is more than enough to put Brenner away for life."

She shot him a wry look. "You know as well as I do that a cell isn't going to keep him from coming after me, or anyone else he thinks put him there."

"More reason for you to take the offer and enter Witness Protection," he pressed, watching her face carefully.

He could see the signs of fatigue in the way she hunched her shoulders, the dark circles ringing her eyes, the paleness of her complexion. What must have once been fiery green eyes were now dulled to a peridot hue, glassy even. Her lips were chapped and peeling from what he guessed to be constant biting. She didn't seem agitated or twitchy, and perhaps that was what concerned him the most. She just seemed...listless.

"No," she said simply, but in that single word, he could hear it.

The rage. It barely sparked behind those dull irises, didn't even thread through her tone, but it was there. Just beneath the surface, locked down with a patience that was chilling.

He decided to be blunt, and his words were clipped and terse.

"I can't guarantee your safety, you know that. I can't guarantee that anyone who's ever had an association with you will be safe. I can't even promise you that we'll pull this off. That's a whole lot of maybe's you're banking on."

"And if I take the FBI's offer, I can be fucking sure that Patrick will eventually find me," she shot back hotly. "And not _just _me. My friends, my neighbors, fuck, the kids I treat!" She hissed in a breath through clenched teeth, then let it out slowly, speaking more calmly, but her her voice was strained. "No one will be spared. He'll gun down every single person on my block just to make his point." She met his gaze. "And I couldn't live with that."

He canted his head, his eyes narrowing assessingly. "But you can live with murder."

The way she looked at him then...she knew. She knew exactly what he was saying right then. And she didn't flinch.

"Yeah," she said after a long moment, pulling out her hand to push her hair out of her face. "Yeah, I can live with that." She eyed him shrewdly. "That's half the reason you contacted me to begin with, isn't it?"

"More like a third," he replied honestly. "Your relationship with Brennar being another, and your past...relationships being the final consideration ."

She lifted her shoulders in a shrug, digging into her jeans and pulling out a lighter as her other hand came up with a pack of cigarettes. "Fair enough."

She offered the pack to him, and he took one, drawing his own silver-plated lighter from his slacks. Lighting up, he took a deep drag, relishing the taste of menthol. They stood there smoking for a bit, each quietly in their own thoughts.

Then she turned back to him uncertainly, flicking the end of her smoke with her index finger.

"Mr. Smecker...what makes you think that they'll even remember me? I mean, it's been ten years, and I was just a teenager when they left. Sure, we were close then, but...hell, that's a long time, and a lot of distance, if what you've told me is true."

He didn't have to ask to know who she meant, and he smiled reassuringly at her.

"Oh, I'm sure they'll remember. If there's anything I learned, it's that they _never _forget anything."

Her cheeks flushed and Smecker was smugly certain that it wasn't just because of the sudden icy gust that blew in from the doorway.

"And you really think you'll be able to get them to come?"

"I do," he answered without hesitation, puffing on the filter of his cigarette as he glanced at her sideways. "As long as you hold up your end."

She lowered her eyes to the floor thoughtfully. He was fishing for a commitment. He wanted to hear her say that she was on board, one hundred percent. They couldn't have anything less. And not just because it was the Company's first real operation in several years.

If everyone wasn't pulling their weight on this, they could lose everything.

Smecker felt the tension in his chest give a little when she looked back at him, her jaw set as she nodded.

"I'll hold up my end. And then some."

"Excellent." He finished his cigarette and tossed the butt into the sand filled can nearby before offering her his arm, which she took, extinguishing her own smoke in the same can.

He led her back outside, to the car he'd had the driver leave running.

"Will you still be leaving for New Orleans tonight?" he inquired of her as they gingerly slipped between the gravestones.

"Yeah," she said, sighing heavily. "Patrick's insisting I go." She glanced over. "Still going to meet me there in a couple days?"

"Absolutely," Smecker replied.

Opening the door for her, he glanced around the cemetery warily, then climbed in after her. He leaned forward and gave his driver the address he wanted, then settled back into the warm leather seat.

As the car smoothly pulled out of the gate, no one noticed the small, messy-haired man emerge from behind one of the larger tombstones, a cell phone raised as he snapped a picture of the license plate.

* * *

><p>Murphy tapped his foot idly against the solid wooden post that towered over one corner of his bed, his hands clasped behind his head as he stared at the bottom of his brothers' bunk. Humming a nameless tune under his breath, he reached up with one hand and absently traced a swirling, knotted pattern across the bare mattress. Maybe he and Connor could design a new set of tattoos. The ones on their backs had finally been finished to their liking. And he was wanting one that was a bit more of a hearkening to their roots.<p>

"Murph, cut it the fuck out," he heard drift down from the top bunk, the words slightly muffled and he grinned crookedly as he fisted his hand and slammed it up against the mattress.

There was another curse as his twin's head popped out from over the edge of the bunk, glaring down at him with bleary blue eyes.

"I will fuckin' end ya if ya fuckin' keep tha' up," Connor growled at him, a threat that Murphy shrugged off, knowing it would irritate him to no end.

"Fuck you," he replied easily, but before the row could well and truly be set off, he added quietly, "I had a dream last night."

The admission took all the fight out of his brother, whose head disappeared again, and Murphy heard him settle back onto the bunk.

"Aye, I did too," came the lighter-haired man's quiet voice.

Murphy was quiet for a couple of beats, almost unwilling to ask the question aloud. Chewing on his thumbnail, the pad resting against the corner of his mouth, he asked, "About our _Stoirín_?"

Connor didn't reply for a long time, and when he did, it was nearly too soft for him to hear. "She hasn't been ours for a long time. Probably quite grown up now, I imagine."

Murphy hummed under his breath again, more of a noise now than a tune, turning the dream over in his mind. It had been like re-living the memory, so clear and vivid. He closed his eyes, and he could still see her grinning at him happily, her long black curls tickling her shoulders as she sipped a beer between him and Connor on that threadbare couch. In his mind's eye, he traced the contour of her face, the way one corner of her mouth quirked higher than the other when she grinned, how her eyes sparked with mischief. She'd had the makings of a great beauty, even then. An equal mixture of sweetness and devilment that could haunt a man.

He swallowed hard, guilt gnawing at the warmth of that moment. Jesus fucking Christ, they hadn't even been the ones to tell her about Roc. Never knew who it was. Maybe no one ever did. Maybe she found out on the news. Fuck, he hoped not.

He shifted on the bunk, reaching up to trace the same pattern again.

They should have been the ones to tell her, if anyone, although in a perfect world, they would have never had to. They'd practically raised her those last two years. Dearer than blood, she'd been.

Murphy shook his head roughly. No point dwelling in the past.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, hissing in a breath at the cold touch of the hardwood floor against his bare feet. Quickly, he leaned over and shoved a ratty pair of socks over them. Grumbling, he padded to the crooked fireplace at the far side of the one-room cottage, skirting around the long oak table that dominated the center. The fire had banked to hardly more than a few glowing embers. Reaching for the poker leaning against the warm brick, he stirred the ashy remnants of the logs they'd stacked in the hearth. He added another from the pile on the other side of the chimney.

As the flames started to lick along the bottom of the wood, the door swung open, a gust of chill wind accompanying it.

"Fuck," Murphy swore, wrapping his arms tightly around his middle as he straightened from the hearth.

Two men tramped quickly inside, one slamming the door and bolting it behind them while the other stood hunched and shivering.

"Ya couldn't find a less inhospitable farm t'raise yer sheep, Noah? Somewhere a bit more south, perhaps?" said the second man, removing his hat and revealing a shock of neatly combed white hair as he hung it on the peg next to the door.

"I'm sure the Company can supply ya with a thicker coat, Sibeal," their father replied evenly. "I understand they're far more well-funded these days."

Connor thumped down from his bunk with a wide grin. "Uncle Sibeal!"

The older man gripped Connor's hand with both of his, a warm smile on his round, ruddy face. Murphy stood beside his brother and the elderly priest grasped his hand as well.

"Connor, Murphy! Oh, let me take a look at ya boys, now." He glanced them over, a proud twinkle in his deep blue eyes. "The whiskers are longer, but not much more than that, I'm pleased to see."

Self-consciously, Connor ran a hand down the length of his beard as Murphy scratched the back of his head.

"Yeah, well, the sheep wouldn't exactly be impressed one way or the other, ya know, Uncle," Murphy muttered before gesturing for him to take a seat in the chair closest to the warming fire.

Sibeal eased himself down with a groan, reaching around to rub at his lower back.

"Blasted rheumatism. Can barely stand more than a touch of frost on the ground now before it starts acting up." He looked towards their da with a pitiful expression. "I don't suppose ya've got a bit of medicine for an old man's aches."

Noah moved near the cabinets, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and small cups as his sons each claimed a chair on opposite sides of the table. Setting the cups down, he poured a generous amount into the first and handed it to the priest with a faint smile.

"See if that doesn't help yer rheumatism."

Eagerly licking his dry lips, Sibeal tipped his head back and swallowed down the amber alcohol, setting the cup back down on the table at his elbow with a pleased sigh.

"Ah, that it does. I can feel the pain easin' away with the chill in me bones."

Noah settled into the chair across from his brother-in-law, folding his arms across his barrel chest s he leaned back, the wood creaking beneath his large frame.

"Now then, perhaps yer well enough to grace us with the reason for your visit."

The priest's gaze was a mixture of exasperation and quiet shrewdness. "Always straight t'the point. Never can give a man a chance t'simply sit and bask in the company of his family, can ya?" At the other man's blank stare, Sibeal sighed again. "Fine, fine."

The old priest cleared his throat, and the boys leaned forward, listening attentively.

"The Company has asked me t'extend another offer to ya."

"And where are they wantin' t'be sendin' us this time?" Murphy asked, slipping his thumbnail along a wide crack in the table.

"Back t'the States, as I understand." Sibeal reached into his voluminous coat and pulled out a small packet of papers, which he slid towards them.

"Have ya boys ever heard of a man named Patrick Brenner?"


	3. Chapter 2

_**A/N: **_**A huge thank you to everyone who favorited and followed _Cor Gratia_! And a big shout-out to for her wonderful and encouraging reviews. Thank you so much! **

**I hope you all enjoy this chapter as well, and please leave a review if you do!**

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><p>"Have ya boys ever heard of a man named Patrick Brenner?"<p>

Their heads lifted simultaneously, their eyes narrowing as they exchanged a look. Connor was the one who nodded. "Aye. Fucker was a big name in Boston. Up and comin' soldier in the Irish mob. Most people thought he'd make boss one day."

"Aye, that he did," their uncle nodded as they flipped through the packet. "Youngest man t'run a syndicate in decades, and he's got the knack for it, so they say. Got his fingers in pies across the Eastern Seaboard, from what we've gathered. Prostitution, drugs, real estate scams, human trafficking, everything."

Murphy tapped a finger against a glossy photograph depicting a handsome young man with curly blond hair and striking blue eyes. "That him here then?"

Sibeal leaned over a bit to get a better look, then nodded again. "Aye, that'd be him."

"Looks like a fuckin' surfer boy," Connor snickered.

"Maybe so, but that right there is as ruthless a man as you'll ever meet." The old man's gaze hardened. "Take a look at that second page there."

Glancing at one another again, they did, Connor flipping the first page up so that they could read the neatly typed lines. He flipped to the third, and the fourth, the muscle in his jaw clenching tighter and tighter.

_Investigators still refuse to release the names of the 14 children who died last week in a fire at Saint Francis's Home for Girls in the South End of Boston. Their ages range from 2 to 16 years old. The orphanage, whose funding is primarily dependant on private donations, was recently involved in a legal dispute with local property mogul, Patrick Brenner..._

_Four more bodies have been identified from the recent car bombing that killed a further two individuals and wounded more than a dozen others this weekend. Local police have confirmed that at least one of the deceased had ties to the so-called Irish Mafia..._

_A local businessman, Matthew O'Brian, 43, was shot and killed last night while closing up his grocery store, located on West 2nd Street. In a tragic turn of events, police investigators have also revealed that O'Brian's wife, Felicia, 38, and their three children, ages 4, 9, and 11, were also found murdered in the family home a few blocks away…_

_Police continue to look into the recent string of killings involving several South Boston women, all of whom have been confirmed to have connections to a prostitution ring that has been known to operate in the area. "The neighborhoods know what's been going on," said Detective Joseph Hamilton. "But nobody's talking. Nobody's going to talk, but that's what we need. We need people to come forward." _

It went on and on, page after page of news articles, all of them with a single thread of commonality. The lines around Connor's mouth tightened.

The priest's hands clenching where they rested in his lap. "I've sent ya boys out t'deal with some terrible people these last few years, but this man…" His voice trailed off as words seemed to fail him, and he turned his head towards the fire.

Noah, who up until then had simply been sitting quietly, reached out a hand towards his sons. Murphy leaned up and handed him the papers, watching his father as the silver-haired patriarch scanned through the pages. His expression never changed, gave no hint as to what he was thinking as his eyes roved back and forth steadily. Finally, he looked up towards Connor and Murphy, who each nodded to him. Then he turned his gaze on the man across from him.

"We'll be takin' yer Company up on their offer," he said tonelessly, setting the stack back down on the table.

"Aye, I thought ya might," Sibeal replied, heaving out a heavy breath and lifting his hand to rub across his brow.

"Been meanin' t'make a trip back t'Boston, haven't we, Connor?" Murphy asked, folding his arms on the table.

Connor mirrored the action, scrubbing a hand down the side of his face. "Aye."

"I'm afraid tha' won't be where ya'll be goin', boys," their uncle cut in, almost apologetically. "Too many people still remember them faces a yers. And we've learned of a better opportunity."

"Ya got someone on the inside, then?" Connor asked curiously, giving a low whistle when Sibeal nodded. "Da's right. If ya can swing tha', they can afford t'be givin' ya a nicer coat, Uncle Sibeal."

"Yes, well," he cleared his throat again. "At any rate, we know tha' Brenner will be stayin' in New Orleans for a bit. Supposedly, he's workin' on somethin' big. Don't know what tha' is yet, but if it means tha' we can disrupt more than simply his business dealings-"

"Then it's an opportunity we should take," Noah finished for him, stroking a hand down the length of his salt-and-pepper beard.

Murphy canted his head. "We're gonna be workin' with Agent Smecker again, yeah?"

Sibeal nodded. "Aye. And t'my understandin', ya'll also be workin' in close contact with our informant." He reached out with one wrinkled hand and tapped a finger against the stack of papers. "Should be a bit of information on them here, near the back, so they told me."

Connor reached for the pages again and briskly flipped to the pages the old man had indicated. As he read the name, the color started to drain from his face. Murphy, alarmed at the rapid change in his brother's expression, leaned over his arm to take a look. His bright blue eyes widened. His head snapped up again.

"Are ya sure this is right, Uncle Sibeal?" the darker-haired twin asked hoarsely.

He regarded the two of them hesitantly before he nodded again. "Aye, t'my knowledge, it is. Ya two be knowin' the young woman then?"

Connor's face was set in a grimace, his heart thundering in his chest as he picked up a photo nestled among the pages. He traced its edge with his thumb.

There was no mistaking those eyes.

"Aye, we know her."

Murphy nodded his agreement as he tapped the bottom of his pack of cigarettes, pulling out one and clenching the bit between his lips. "Better question would be wha' the hell she's doin' with the likes of him."

Sibeal lifted his bony shoulders as he spread his hands before him in a helpless gesture.

"I don't know boys. I wish I did. But I can tell ya both tha' if she's been with him any length of time, and has actually agreed t'work with the Company, then ya can wager she's seen somethin'. Somethin' awful enough t'scare her badly."

Connor accepted the lit cigarette from his brother, knowing that his gaze was just as unable as his own to tear itself away from the photo as he set it carefully on the table.

"We can see tha'," he breathed out with the smoke, staring at the wary expression tightening a face he hadn't seen in nearly a decade.

Suspicion darkened her irises. Her head was turned to the side, glancing back behind her as she crossed a busy street. Her hair, longer but just as thick and wavy as he remembered, was flowing back, whipping out as if she had just spun about. He slid the picture towards Murphy, who lifted it up, his index finger swirling over the windblown strands.

"More curious about the how rather than the what," Murphy murmured, looking over towards Connor. His lips curved upwards a little. "More than likely our _Stoirín _put herself in somethin' she weren't supposed to."

Connor didn't argue with him about still labeling her as theirs. He doubted he could change Murph's mind anyways, not if he was stuck on it. He couldn't deny that it still sounded good as well, even after all these years. Maybe…

He settled back in his chair, throwing one arm over its back and stretching his legs out beneath the table. His bright blue gaze fixed on the priest.

"Tell us wha' ya know, Uncle."

* * *

><p>Mariana stared out of the sleek jet's window, her features set in a mask of boredom. She had her thumb against her lips, her teeth worrying at the worn nail as she watched the wing slice through snowy clouds, her mind far away.<p>

Had it really been that long ago? Some days it seemed like only the day before, her brother had pulled her in for one of his bear hugs, kissed the top of her head and made her promise to be a good girl. She internally winced. Roc never could see her as more than the scrawny-assed kid that had followed him everywhere. If she were entirely honest with herself, she hadn't exactly ever given him much of a reason to think differently.

"Mariana!"

And here she was now, following in his footsteps.

Painting a sweet, cheerful smile across her features, she turned in her seat, forcing herself to relax against the backrest. She crossed her legs beneath the oval oak table just in front of her and reached for the slender glass of water she'd asked for. Taking a sip, she turned her head in the direction her name had been called from.

"I'm sorry, Patrick, I was enjoying the view."

The man she addressed chuckled softly, his cornflower blue eyes warm as he regarded her from the leather couch across the cabin. He beckoned to her with square-tipped fingers. Her stomach swooped unpleasantly as she unbuckled her seat belt and obediently stood. She let him take her hand in his and guide her to sit astride his lap, her denim-clad legs draping over the arm of the plush couch as his arm came around her to support her back. Her fingers carded through his curly, sandy-colored hair as he dipped his head to press a quick kiss at the corner of her mouth.

"I rather like it myself," he joked, his eyes fixed on her face as his arms wrapped around her.

She let her smile fade into a teasing smirk.

"You're such a shameless flirt."

Patrick shrugged his wide shoulders. "Can't help it when it comes to you, sweetheart."

"Stop," she laughed, playfully reaching down to swat his arm.

He chuckled again. Lifting a hand to tuck dark strands behind her ear, he regarded her fondly. "How in God's name did I ever find someone like you to be my wife?"

The weight of the engagement ring on her finger was suddenly thrice that of what it had been, and Mariana had to resist the urge to glance down at it. She knew its design by heart, had traced with her eyes the delicate, diamond-encrusted lattice that twined up to the twinkling, square-cut emerald too many times to count. It was gorgeous, fitting on her finger perfectly, and despite its audacious setting, it still managed to maintain an appearance of wealthy elegance.

She hated it with a passion.

"It probably had something to do with how you walked into my ward and somehow came to the conclusion that ruining my rotation chart was the best way to get my attention," she said aloud blithely, her lips twitching.

"_That _was a fortunate accident, and you know it," he retorted, pecking the tip of her nose.

Mariana snorted. "Accident, my ass. You planned that whole debacle, down to that poor orderly getting tossed into the dirty laundry bin headfirst."

"Firstly, you think much too highly of my abilities to plan that far ahead and secondly, I had no idea you even worked at that hospital, so I think I can safely say that your argument is invalid."

"Semantics," she sniffed.

How long was she going to be able to keep this up, she wondered silently. Not the lying, that she could do, had been for a long time. There were moments it disturbed her how easily they slipped out of her mouth. No, she simply wondered how long she could stomach being near him.

Shifting in his lap, she tucked her head under his chin, praying that she wouldn't break out in a cold sweat as her finger plucked at his crisp white shirt, and afraid that he'd be able to see the real turn of her thoughts if she stared up at him. "Are you sure you want me with you at his meeting, babe? I'm not exactly the most business-minded person in the world."

Patrick slid his hand down to rub soothingly along the column of her spine. "Of course I want you here." He pulled her back so he could look directly into her face. "I want your honest opinions about the people we're gonna be seeing." He smirked, slipping his fingertips under the hem of her shirt. "And to show you off."

Her stomach roiled again as she felt his hand touch the bare skin of her waist and stiffened. Mariana braced her hand against his chest, stopping him from trailing his hand any further. "I...I need to go to the restroom."

She didn't spare a glance for his suddenly worried expression, just scrambled to disentangle herself from him and bolt towards the tiny door near the back of the cabin. Wrenching it open, she slammed it back shut and leaned against it. Her hand trembled as she lifted it to grasp at her face, her breathing coming in short gasps. The fluorescent lights glinted off her ring, catching her eye, and with a hitched sob, she snatched it from her finger and hurled it into the sink.

Mariana hadn't ever thought she'd be grateful for the fact that Patrick had a private jet, but at that exact moment, she couldn't have been more thankful. Pushing in the tiny lock behind her, she staggered to the small toilet and slumped down on it, sucking in large gulps of air to keep from crying. Blindly, she reached into the sink and fished out the ring, letting it fall onto the counter with a small ping before twisting the cold water tap. Letting the water just run, she braced her forearms on her thighs and her forehead in the palm of one hand.

God, how had it come to this?

It was a stupid question. She knew, in precise detail, every inch of the path she'd taken to reach this point, and every time she looked back on it, she found it lined more and more with regrets. Heh, if only Roc and the boys could see her now.

She nearly gagged thinking about it.

But they would know. Smecker, or maybe someone else, would tell them. And then they'd know everything. _Everything_. And she had to let it happen. Wearily, she raised her head to look at herself in the mirror from her seat, the reflection cut off at the chin.

"Put yourself in a right pretty corner," she muttered to the unnaturally pale woman staring back at her. Her gaze narrowed.

And she wasn't getting out of it any time soon.

A knock at the door made her jump.

"Mariana? You ok in there, sweetheart?"

She swallowed the panicked lump that had lodged in her throat.

"I-I'm fine," she called out, her voice higher than she would have liked as she turned off the tap. "Just feeling a little sick. You know how I get on flights."

Never thought she'd be grateful for that either.

"Do you want me to get you the Dramamine?"

"Yes, please, and a ginger ale, if you don't mind," she answered, listening for his footsteps as he moved away from the door.

When she was sure he was no longer close by, Mariana rose on wobbly legs, her hands gripping the edge of the sink like claws. Her head slowly tilted, dark hair spilling over her shoulder as she looked into her own wet eyes, red rimmed and blackened from lack of sleep. It was too knowing a look, and before she recognized that she'd done it, her gaze had lowered to the bowl of the sink, her hand already reaching out to turn the tap back on. Splashing cold water across her features with a sharp intake of breath, she braced her weight on the sink and glanced up again.

Droplets dripped down the concave curve of her cheeks, gaunt where they had once been full. Her mouth seemed permanently thinned now, and when she smiled, it appeared to her to be more of grimace.

How the hell was she supposed to pull this off?

Reluctantly, she looked down at the counter and reached out her hand, towards the ring she'd tossed away. Mariana hesitated for a long moment, her damp fingers hovering above the glistening metal. Simply by the way it sat on the chilled formica, she could feel the heaviness of its weight.

But then the knocking was ricocheting through the small space, and she snatched it up, shoving it back onto her finger. Then she unlocked the door and flung it open.

Her smile was brittle as she accepted the medicine and glass from Patrick, who eyed her with concern. "Thanks, babe."

He brushed her hair back with his fingers. "Better?"

"Yeah," she lied, touching his hand with hers. "I'm fine."


End file.
